


Hearts

by EuterpesChild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, M/M, PTSD John, Reichenbach Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8192975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuterpesChild/pseuds/EuterpesChild
Summary: Originally written in 2013 and posted to deviantArt.John & Sherlock meet as children. They stay friends for a while, but is it long enough for both of them to admit their feelings?(follows events of canon)





	1. Prelude/Chapter 1

John looked up from his notebook and looked across the playground. A small, somber boy, probably around the age of six, was looking steadily back at him. John eyed him curiously from the other side of the playground, across the sea of children yelling and playing. The other boy seemed to be trying to read his mind from across the playground. John shook his head slightly, trying to shake off the younger boy's gaze. He turned back to his notebook, and realized that he had been sketching without noticing. Blushing slightly, he realized his hand had drawn a truly excellent sketch of the younger boy across the playground. He glanced up at the other boy who was smirking as if he knew exactly what John had been doing. John's eyes flickered down to his notebook and then back up, but when his glance returned to the opposite side of the playground, the boy was gone. John had no idea who he was or why he had been watching John. He shook his head once again and returned to his notebook.  
  
It was the last week of school, and John was sitting on the same bench on the playground with his notebook on his lap on a break between tests. He glanced up and, to his surprise, he saw the boy sitting across the playground from him. As he continued looking at him, the other boy held up a piece of paper with the words "I'm Sherlock" scrawled across it in large black marker. John ripped some paper out of his notebook and wrote "I'm John" in as large letters as he could manage. He held it up for the other boy – Sherlock – to see. Sherlock scrawled something quickly and when he held up the paper, it read "I know." John stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to think or do next. He looked down at his notebook to try to think of something to say, but when he looked up again Sherlock was gone. He had no idea what to make of this boy who said strange things and disappeared without a trace. John shook his head slowly and wondered, possibly even hoped, that he would see this strange boy again.


	2. Chapter 2

       It was the first day of the new school year after the hols, and John was sitting down to lunch with some of his classmates. He was just setting his tray down when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was that boy from the playground. What was his name? Oh right: Sherlock. An odd name. He appeared to have grown over the summer and was now only a few inches shorter than John.  
“Can I sit with you?” he said. John was about to reply when another of the boys at the table said scornfully, “Don’t let him; he’s a freak.” John turned to the other boy. “What do you mean he’s a freak?” John asked, a bit harshly. Turning to Sherlock, he said, “Of course you can sit here.” The other boys at the table stared at John, stunned, and turned to glare at Sherlock. The boy who had spoken to John answered his question after the two boys had sat down.   
“He has this trick he does where he can tell you everything you’ve done and everything your family has done just by looking at you,” the boy said derisively. “It’s not a trick,” Sherlock muttered, spearing a green bean off his plate. “I just observe, that’s all.” “It is too a trick,” the other boy jeered. “And you’re a freak; everyone knows that. I’m not about to eat lunch with a freak!” And with that, all of John’s classmates got up and moved to another table, leaving John and Sherlock alone. They ate in silence for a few moments before Sherlock spoke.  
“I’m sorry I made your friends leave,” Sherlock said, still speaking in his quiet voice. “They aren’t really my friends,” John answered, also quietly. “I guess I don’t really have any friends here. We’ve just all been in the same class together for the past five years.” “Five?” asked Sherlock, looking up at him. “How old are you?” “Ten,” John answered. “Fifth year. How old are you?” “Six,” Sherlock said, looking back at his food. “I’m a third year.” John stared at him for a moment confused, then decided that this was probably just one of Sherlock’s quirks and went back to eating.  
He stopped a moment later, though, when he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him. He looked over to see the young boy staring at him. “What?” John asked, his mouth full. “You want me to prove it,” Sherlock said solemnly. John swallowed. “Prove what?” he asked. Sherlock sighed and lay down his fork. Turning to get a better look at John, Sherlock took a deep breath.  
“You’re ten years old and in the fifth year. You go to a posh school, but you don’t particularly like it, and you don’t appreciate your mom sending you here. Your favourite colour is red, as is obvious from the red jumper you wear under your uniform almost every day. You don’t have many friends here, because they’re all richer than you and feel awkward around them. Besides, none of them are really your type. You have a sister who’s a year older than you who also attends here. You like her well enough, but she gets on your nerves, particularly at lunch time. You are an excellent artist, you want to be a doctor, and you’ve been thinking about me ever since that day on the playground. Did I get anything wrong?” John stared at Sherlock, forgetting to keep chewing the food that was in his mouth. He remembered after a moment, swallowed, and then said rather hoarsely, “No. That was brilliant. But how did you-“ Sherlock cut him off abruptly, saying, “Here comes my brother, with your sister by the look on your face. Hello, Mycroft.” The “hello” was addressed towards a tall, imperious-looking boy, about the same age as John, who had approached while Sherlock was talking and had just sat down at the table. He was quickly followed by a blond girl who plunked her tray down and swung her legs into her seat in a very unladylike manner. “Hello, Sherlock,” the boy said in a rather bored tone. “Who’s your friend?” The girl piped up: “That’s my brother, John,” she said cheerily. “John, this is Mycroft Holmes.” The two boys shook hands across the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Mycroft,” John said apprehensively. “You were in my class last year, weren’t you?” “Indeed I was,” said Mycroft in the same bored tone. “They moved me ahead a year, which is why I am now in the same class as Harriet.” “I see,” said John cautiously. There was an awkward moment of silence at the table as all four children took a bite of their food. John noticed that Sherlock had gotten a tiny portion, and Mycroft had gotten rather a large portion, but was trying to eat very little of it. John was the first to speak again. “So, Sherlock, you and Mycroft are brothers?” The two boys glared at each other. “Yes,” Mycroft answered. “I know your sister, John, because we are currently seeing each other. Sherlock is my brother. How he met you, though, John, I can only wonder.” Sherlock glared even more vehemently at his brother, if that was possible. John raised his eyebrows at Harriet, who rolled her eyes. “Not my type,” she mouthed. John remembered Sherlock saying the same words a few minutes ago, and turned to ask him about it, but decided against it when he saw the two Holmes brothers glaring daggers at each other from across the table. John sighed. It was going to be a long lunch.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the first day of secondary school, and John was nervous. He tugged on the familiar red jumper. It was not the same jumper that Sherlock had commented on all those years ago – that jumper had long since been too small. This was a new jumper, but it was in the exact same shade of red that John (and Sherlock, he had discovered) loved so much. John stood anxiously at the top of the school steps and scanned the crowd. Soon he saw the familiar tall figure and black curly hair of the boy who had become John’s best friend during their years of primary school. He waved slightly, and waited for Sherlock to come up the stairs.  
“Hey,” he said awkwardly, when Sherlock had arrived. “How was your summer?”  
“Dull,” Sherlock said in a drawl. “New jumper. And it appears your sister and my brother are no longer seeing each other.” The two boys walked into the school together and joined the throngs that were trying to find their classrooms. “That’s true,” John said. “Harry finally told Mycroft she doesn’t swing that way. Actually, I think the words she used were that he was not her type.” John looked sideways at Sherlock, wondering if Sherlock remembered that conversation from five years ago. From the look on Sherlock’s face, he guessed they both remembered it word for word.  
When the two boys finally found their classroom and everyone had been seated, it turned out there was a new student, which almost never happened. Her name was Molly Hooper, and she was the most beautiful girl John had ever seen. He asked her to sit with them at lunch, prompting a strange glare from Sherlock. John asked Molly out the very next week.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few years were strange for John. He and Molly had been going steady since that first week of secondary school, and he and Sherlock had remained friends (as much as Sherlock could have friends), but their friendship was strained. Sherlock would at times treat John the way he had since John was in fifth year, but would occasionally ignore him completely and at other times would be highly protective and possessive of John and try his hardest to keep him away from Molly. John was completely confused by Sherlock’s behaviour, and his life was made even more difficult when his sister Harry tried to flirt with Molly then brought home another girl the next week, when John’s parents went through a nasty divorce, and when Sherlock called John once to tell him in a disgusted voice that Mycroft had begun seeing one of their classmates, Greg Lestrade, and his parents were horrified.


	5. Chapter 5

It was break on the first day of their last year of secondary school, and Sherlock was acting even more strangely than usual. As soon as they were outside, he grabbed John’s arm and dragged him bodily over behind a clump of bushes. By now, Sherlock was a good foot taller than John, even though he was four years younger. John looked askance at Sherlock and glanced regretfully back at Molly, who was looking rather stunned. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” he hissed. Sherlock looked around, as if checking to see if anyone was listening in. “Sherlock, no one can see or hear us back here. What do you want?”  
“John, I don’t think you should keep seeing Molly Hooper,” he said finally. John was flabbergasted. Sherlock had dragged him all the way over here just to say that?  
“What?” he said indignantly. “What do you mean? We’ve been going out for three years! I can’t just jilt her now for no reason. Besides, I really like her. What are you talking about, Sherlock?”  
“John, she’s not your type,” Sherlock started. John cut him off.   
“Not my type,” he said scornfully. “So I’m just supposed to go over to her and say, ‘Sorry Molly, I can’t see you any more, Sherlock says you’re not my type.’ Can you imagine what she’ll think then? She’ll think I’m the same way as Harry, or, or Mycroft!” Sherlock flinched at the sound of Mycroft’s name, and John immediately felt bad. “Sorry, Sherlock,” he said. “I didn’t mean to remind you of something…” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. There was an awkward silence as John waited and Sherlock twitched anxiously.   
“Look, John,” Sherlock said finally. “She’s not right for you. You like her, but you don’t love her. I think there’s only one person you love, but you’re afraid of what that means. What you don’t know is that they love you back, and every moment they see you with someone who doesn’t fit you their heart breaks, partly because they want to be the one with you, but partly because they don’t want you to spend the rest of your life chasing after her or someone else that doesn’t fit you and never will.” Sherlock took a deep breath, and John stared at him. Emotions were running through his head like an out-of-control bullet train. “What do you mean?” John said quietly. “Who are you talking about?” Sherlock ran his hands through his curls and tugged slightly. He looked worried and angry, and his face was turning bright red. “It’s me,” he said, even more quietly. John froze. “What?” he said, his voice low and tense. “I said it’s me,” Sherlock said, his voice rising slightly and growing faster as he became more frantic. “You love me, John, and I love you. My heart has attached itself to you, and it doesn’t do that for just anyone. It’s never attached to any of my family. The only person I care about and have ever cared about is you, John Watson. I know it scares you to death, and trust me it scares me too, but it’s true and we can’t do anything about it except to accept it and try to keep it healthy. John, don’t look at me like that. I don’t know what to do any more than you do, and I know you care about what other people think, but you know I’m right, deep down you know it’s true. John, just listen to me. And please, help me. We can help each other. We can make this work, because it’s supposed to happen. John, please don’t turn away. I need you, John. I love you.”  
John had begun backing away slowly during Sherlock’s speech, and as soon as Sherlock finished he turned and dashed away, past a startled Molly, through a crowd of students, and behind the school. He crawled under a clump of thick bushes and cried. At first he was embarrassed: a 19-year-old boy sitting under a clump of bushes crying. But he couldn’t do anything else. He kept repeating Sherlock’s words in his head. He knew it was true, but he couldn’t accept it. How could he? How could he ever admit to himself, let alone the whole world, that the one person he loved, had loved, and ever could love, was a man? He knew they had been friends from childhood and that their only friends were each other, but love? John buried his face in his arms and felt the red wool of his jumper envelope him.  
Sherlock stood frozen behind the bushes, not even noticing the tears that were streaming slowly down his face. What had he done wrong? Why had John run away? He had expected a heated argument, some confusion and anger, and possibly physical harm, but not John turning and fleeing from him as if he were a murderer or a ghost. He rubbed his face with his sleeves irritably and continued staring in the direction of John’s flight. Should he go after him? What would he say? What would John say? He had only discovered this strange truth the day before, and he felt it necessary to share with John, as he did all his observations. Why did it upset John so much? Sherlock stood, puzzled and thinking, behind the bushes, not noticing that his eyes were becoming increasingly red and bloodshot.  
When the bell rang for the students to go in from break, John dashed from under his bushes and reached the steps at the exact same moment as Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John cut him off abruptly. “I don’t care,” he said harshly. “Go away and leave me alone. I never want to see you again, Sherlock Holmes.” And with that, John pushed his way through the other students and rushed up the stairs. Sherlock stood stock still, the students behind him pushing around him, and let the full force of John’s hateful words sink into his soul. He felt as if they were being branded onto his heart. _“I never want to see you again, Sherlock Holmes.”_ Sherlock stared after the only friend he had and he felt his heart break.


	6. Chapter 6

John managed to avoid speaking to Sherlock for the rest of the year. They did not shake hands at graduation, and when Mycroft, Greg Lestrade, Harry, and Harry’s girlfriend Clara came up to congratulate them both, they did not even look at each other.   
  
    John applied to medical school and was accepted. He didn’t inform Sherlock of his decision, though he was reminded of Sherlock telling John he wanted to be a doctor when they were both in primary school. He was fairly sure Sherlock was not going to be a doctor, so he hoped he could attend Uni far away from Sherlock Holmes and never think about him again. How wrong he was. The medical school John was attending was part of the same university as a world-renowned science school, and Sherlock was attending to become a scientist. They ended up having at least one class together every semester, and they graduated together, despite John’s finishing his degree several years early and Sherlock’s many fields of study. At the party the graduating class threw the night before graduation, John and Sherlock locked eyes from across the room. Sherlock held up a piece of paper that read “Congratulations, John” in scrawled black marker. John was reminded of the second time they had met, and Sherlock had held up a piece of paper with the words “I’m Sherlock” on it. A smile crossed his face involuntarily, and he reached for a pen and a piece of paper. Then he remembered the last time they’d spoken, and his face darkened. To anyone watching, John would have looked angry for a moment before becoming cheerful again, but Sherlock, who had practically grown up watching John, saw the pain in his eyes that remained throughout the evening.


	7. Chapter 7

After leaving medical school, John joined the army as a medic. After four years he was sent to Afghanistan, which was a living hell. John saw friends gunned down beside him while he lay helpless in a trench. He saw many young soldiers that he was unable to save because they had lost so much blood. A young woman that he had thought he had loved was killed while John watched. And still he survived. Something kept him going and kept him from harm. One day while his company was in the trenches, shooting and being shot, John was yelling at a friend to get down when he himself was shot in the shoulder. He remembered very little of that afternoon, except that everyone else died save one young man who inexpertly attempted to help take care of the wound. The few weeks went by with John hardly noticing a thing. When he finally emerged from his quasi-comatose state, he could remember almost nothing except that last battle. He could recite his mother’s phone number and street address, he could remember that he had a sister and what her name was, and he could remember the name of Harry’s now-wife, but he could remember none of his childhood, none of his friends, and only a few of the people that had been with him in Afghanistan. He was honourably discharged from the military and sent home with a cane, a psychosomatic limp, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and pretty much no memory.


	8. Chapter 8

When John passed by his old Uni colleague Mike Stamford in the park, he had no flash of recognition, nor anything to suggest that John had once known the man. Mike recognized John, however, and called him over. John pretended to recognize him, and indeed he had a vague sense that this was someone familiar. They had a short and rather awkward conversation over coffee, and when John mentioned that he was looking for a flat and a flatmate, Mike perked up.  
  
“You’re the second person to mention needing a flatmate today,” Mike said. “Who was the first?” John asked, a bit interested. “Come on, I’ll take you to meet him,” Mike said cheerily, standing up from where they had been sitting.  
  
The morgue of St. Bartholomew’s hospital was not a place one expected to meet a potential flatmate, but that was exactly where Stamford took John. They passed by a pretty young woman in the hallway and she seemed to cringe at the sight of John, but John didn’t recognize her, so he merely gave her a polite nod and followed Mike into one of the labs. “Bit different from my day,” he said as he entered, remembering vaguely the labs at medical school. A tall, dark-haired man was bent over one of the microscopes, studying something. He glanced up quickly when John and Mike entered, but quickly returned to examining his slide. After a brief, awkward moment, he asked, “Mike, could I borrow your phone? Mine doesn’t get service down here.” Mike looked apologetic. “Sorry, mine’s in my coat.” “You can use mine,” John said, limping over to hand the man his phone. The man looked over John briefly as he took the phone in John’s extended hand. Their fingertips brushed slightly, and John felt a jolt of electricity run up his arm. Static electricity, he thought, shaking off the feeling. It did look like it was going to rain outside, so static was very possible. The tall man began typing out a text on John’s phone, and as he did so, he spoke rather abruptly. “I play the violin when I’m thinking,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end…Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” John stared at him, then shot a questioning glance at Stamford. Mike shook his head, indicating that he hadn’t told the other man anything about John. “Who said anything about flatmates?” John asked, taking his phone that the man proffered. “Simple deduction,” the man said. “I told Mike earlier I needed a flatmate, and a few hours later he turns up with a man he went to Uni with, a man recently returned from the army overseas (Afghanistan or Iraq, by the way?), a man who obviously needs someplace to live and an army pension isn’t much to rent a flat on, so you obviously need a flatmate.” John stared at him, completely nonplussed. There was also something about this man, the way he rattled off the deduction about John so quickly and easily, and something in the man’s face told a part of John that he should recognize him… But nothing clicked and the feeling slipped away. “Afghanistan,” he said slowly. The other man wrote something down on a piece of paper, picked up a small stack of papers, and then headed for the door. “Seven o’clock tomorrow, then?” he said. He grabbed his coat off the hook and nodded to Stamford, who nodded back with a sly grin on his face. “Hang on a sec,” John said, a bit miffed. “We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go look at a flat. I don’t know anything about you, I don’t know the address, and I don’t even know your name.” The man stuck his head around the door and grinned. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And the address is 221B Baker Street.” And with that, he disappeared.  
  
Sherlock put his coat on as he walked down the hallway, his head spinning. John Watson had just walked into his laboratory after so many years, and he hadn’t even recognized Sherlock. Sherlock recognized PTSD immediately and assumed that was the cause of John’s not remembering, but Sherlock was heartbroken that he had meant so little to John that he could be wiped out. He knew that it was usually only family that survived trauma like John’s, but he hoped that his relationship with John would qualify. He should have known better, though, after that last quarrel they’d had. Sherlock could feel his heart breaking again, even though he didn’t think it had ever really healed. He pushed the feeling inside and tried to concentrate on what he had to do. Sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side, he reminded himself. And yet sentiment had prompted him to offer a flat-share with John. He hoped it was the right decision.


	9. Postlude

It was 18 months later, and John felt time stop as he watched the dark figure falling from the roof of St. Bart’s hospital. He could feel all his memories returning as the figure dropped in slow motion: all his memories of school, of his family, and most importantly, his memories of Sherlock. He remembered the first conversation they’d had, and the last. He realized Sherlock had always remembered those, throughout the past 18 months that they had been in the same flat. He wondered what it must have been like for him: remembering the conversations and the quarrel while John sat next to him, not remembering a word of it. He wished he’d been able to apologize. He had never wanted to say those awful things to his best friend, and every day in Uni and in Afghanistan he had wished he could take them back. Now it was too late. As he watched the only person he had ever cared for falling to his death, he cried without hope of being heard, “I’m sorry Sherlock. I never meant those. You were right; you’ve always been right. I’m so sorry Sherlock. I love you too.” As the black figure ended its descent, there were two sounds that could be heard: that of Sherlock’s body hitting the pavement, and that of two hearts breaking.


End file.
